


Storyteller of Shinjuku

by Exstarsis



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25543591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exstarsis/pseuds/Exstarsis
Summary: A simple storyteller goes toe to toe with the Napoleon of Crime.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	Storyteller of Shinjuku

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PallanMinerva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PallanMinerva/gifts).



> In this version of events, the storyteller joined Chaldea before Shinjuku, and both Andersen and Shakespeare were kidnapped by the entity behind that Pseudo-Singularity. On the off chance you worry about such things, this does have spoilers for the original plotline.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she ran: not from exertion but from fear. Servants had nothing to be afraid of, so many had tried to tell her. They were, after all, already dead. But whatever the flaw in her summoning, the storyteller _was_ afraid.

_“It’s not a flaw, woman,” Andersen told her once. “It’s the source of your power. Would you have read so much even as a child if not to escape?”_

_She looked over at the scowling boyish figure. “Yes, it is as you say, of course. And yet I would rather—” Halting, she met his eyes as he shrugged._

_“It’s the fate of being a storytelling Servant. You, constantly in fear, I, constantly in pain. Will, constantly choking on his own ego.”_

_She’d laughed despite herself and he’d given her that narrow little smile he had when he was secretly pleased._

No. She couldn’t remember that smile now. She had to save him first. She had to save him, or she would die. Everybody in the Singularity would, and that would lead to the end of the world, which was a truly terrifying idea.

She ran faster. If she missed her rendezvous—! 

The staff door of the bar loomed abruptly before her and she came to a halt, taking a deep breath before slipping inside. Moving lightly over the casting circles she’d drawn on the back room’s floor, she crossed to the internal bar door and stepped through.

He was waiting for her already, his white head down as he rotated the glass of whisky he’d poured himself. The amber fluid matched the glint of his eyes. Quiet jazz played on the old sound system. 

“There you are,” said EMIYA Alter, without looking up. “And here I thought the evils of this town had finally caught you.”

“No, no,” said the storyteller hurriedly, pushing aside such a frightening notion. “I was only feeding the wolf his medicine, and then the Phantom caught me—” She shook her head, stopping. “But what of you?”

“Nah, go back, I want to hear how you escaped that nutcase.”

Her eyes rounded. _“Escaped?_ You say _escaped_ when I must return to him later? His Christine is lonely, you see. Or so he now believes. I must find some way to distract him until the young man and his Alter guardians can defeat him.” She brooded. “This gets complicated. They have the other Archer with them now.”

“Yeah, it’s a great trick, being in two places at once. The one in the tower’s no Alter, that’s for sure.” Her summoned Archer drained his glass. “And Baal’s nowhere to be seen. You sure about this? The collateral damage of asking for a precise strike is starting to get pretty hefty.”

Instead of answering, the storyteller tapped her fingernails on the bar, lost in thought until he said, “Hey!” 

Then, jumping backwards like a startled rabbit, she said, “Your contract is for Baal. You must end him, or he will never give up trying to murder that young man.” She shook her head. “And he’s far too frightening for me to deal with directly.”

“But the Berserker and the Assassin and the Rider aren’t?” The storyteller knew how to read faces, and so she saw the smirk, even smaller than Andersen’s, beneath EMIYA Alter’s impassivity.

She waved her hands. “Don’t laugh! They’re all dreadful, but _something_ must be done. The real problem is that Archer, and… and the other. I don’t want the young man getting too distracted.”

EMIYA Alter stood up. “I’ll keep an eye on the situation. If something comes up, I’ll put it on your tab.”

“Thank you,” the storyteller murmured. Her tab with EMIYA Alter would be high enough to freeze her blood if she contemplated it, so she didn’t. Instead she watched him go and then ran, quick, quick, up to the roof, where another of her agents awaited her.

He crouched on the top of the stairwell, looking down at her as she emerged. She brought her hands up quickly, defensively, and he snorted. “Don’t be a fool. Even I wouldn’t attack my own summoner in her Territory.”

The storyteller peeked past her hands and then clasped them together. “What have you found, Avenger?”

The Count of Monte Cristo flicked ash from his cigarette into the wind. “That tower’s sealed up tight, but I can get in whenever you’re ready.” His expression darkened. “Also, there’s some idiot cosplaying as me for the kid.”

Shivering at the thought of the ‘idiot,’ the storyteller hugged herself. “I know. Leave him alone. If he finds out you’re really here, he’ll wonder how that came to be. I don’t want that.”

The dark figure eyed her. “Is he why you don’t want me rescuing your friends right now?”

The storyteller couldn’t admit the truth, but there was no lying to the Avenger either. She looked away, helplessly. “Nobody needs to know I’m here.” She cleared her throat. “Once the Archer in the tower is fully distracted, you can rescue them. That will be safest for everyone.”

“Even the kid?” He stubbed his cigarette out and jumped down to her level.

“He has guardians.” Once again, her thoughts drifted far away, thinking about the split Archer of Shinjuku. He had a plan, and she mostly understood it. What she worried at, nearly constantly, was the best way to disrupt it without… the other one…. noticing. It would be nice to leave everything to her agents, to trust _the other one_ to sort everything out with a minimum of fuss. But would he care if Will and Andersen died? They were only Heroic Spirits, after all: already dead!

No, he wouldn’t. She suspected he wouldn’t care if _he_ died, either, so long as he thwarted his rival in the end.

The storyteller shuddered, and the Count of Monte Cristo gave a bark of laughter. “You tremble like a leaf, Caster. Creep back downstairs and hide in your Territory. I’ll take care of your friends when the time comes.”

“If only I could,” murmured the storyteller. “Please give me more of the wolf’s medicine?”

“Impossible woman.” He reached inside his cloak and handed her a vial. Then, with a fanged grin and a tip of his hat, he vanished into the night.

She tucked the vial away and thought about what she had to do next. The wolf’s medicine made him a little sleepy, a little slow, a little bit averse to the taste of blood. Feeding it to him was tricky, but in the right environment he and his Rider relaxed just enough to accept bribes from the properly terrified or the comfortingly familiar. That left the Phantom and the Assassin to deal with. They were both dizzyingly dangerous—but at least managing Assassin required only the simplest and oldest of stories. 

The Phantom, though, was loyal to his Christine. It made him unpredictable. The storyteller would have to return to him until the young man and his guardians were ready to face him. Perhaps, if she cudgeled her brain, she could also find a way to force _the other one_ to reveal himself. It could only give her an advantage. Who would notice _her_ hand at work if _he_ had properly taken the stage?

Wrapping a shawl around herself, the storyteller locked up her bar and went back out into the Shinjuku streets. They were nearly empty, and she only attracted a few eyes that quickly looked away, uncertain if she was the Assassin in disguise. The Count and EMIYA Alter had both helped her achieve that little protection, with rumors and a couple of well-timed disappearances.

As she entered the Kabukicho, the number of Coluratura began to rapidly outnumber the living folk. But here, too, she was known to be nobody important, a worthless individual, save for how she could make the Phantom’s Christine smile. When the Coluratura grabbed her and hurried her to the Phantom so fast she couldn’t keep her feet, she cursed them silently but let her fear show in her eyes.

In the theater, Coluratura mingled with the remains of those who had died before the storyteller arrived. “Make her smile!” demanded the Phantom, gesturing at the doll in the blond wig. “She must smile so she can sing!”

The doll grimaced and the storyteller took a deep breath. There was no making the mad spirit in the doll truly smile. It wasn’t even really a person, but a scrambled collection of urges and hatred and pain. But Erik, the Phantom of the Opera and the Berserker of Shinjuku, didn’t realize that. He was convinced the ascended Coluratura was his love.

It would have been trivial for the storyteller to have made it so: to bring the original Christine Daae into the doll. The storyteller knew the tale, and knew too the singer’s terror of her Phantom. It would be the snap of her fingers to make the Coluratura cower and plead. But the Phantom was unpredictable, so it would not be safe. And the storyteller was shy now of using others’ stories for her own agenda.

Instead, she told the Phantom stories of Christine’s happiness, and he saw what he wanted to see in her words, while Christine shrieked and moaned and ranted for the audience of dolls. And if there were explosions outside and the audience of dolls slowly diminished—it was best if the Phantom and his Christine didn’t notice that. Not until the young man and his guardians were on the doorstep, and it was time for the storyteller to slip away in the smoke and screaming.

She ran down the street, light-footed, her shawl lost in the chaos of the burning theater. Above her, figures ran across the rooftops: her Archer EMIYA Alter, and another she could identify by his very lack of presence. She swerved, changing her course, heading to the secret base of Assassin of Shinjuku, which she’d infiltrated in the past by the most straightforward of means. He was a proud outlaw, and considered himself a connoisseur of women.

Outside the basement window, she stopped, crouching down to listen. Another was within. _The other one_ , who wore her Avenger’s skin. He moved about quietly, looking at papers and occasionally sending a bottle rolling. The storyteller’s thoughts flew. He needed to be forced into direct action. The Assassin would infiltrate the young man’s guardians, the better to lure him somewhere private. Killing him would serve nobody’s ends, but the Assassin wouldn’t care about that. He didn’t need the pain and fear of Christine, or the rage of the wolf, to enjoy spilling blood.

She could stop that. But could she use that urge to bring _the other one_ out of hiding?

Maybe… with a nudge. With a clatter, just enough to make him suspicious. Make him excited. Make him want to be on stage himself.

Her heart in her throat, she scuffed her foot across the ground beside the window. The small noises from within stopped immediately. Then she heard the squeak of a stair step. As the door stealthily opened, she cupped her hands and whispered, in her tiniest voice, the other one’s True Name.

It was far too quiet for him to hear her, but the wind caught her words and carried them into the city. His rival in the tower had been waiting for him, but the Archer’s own arrogance hadn’t allowed him to create a _space_ for Sherlock Holmes, and so the other had moved around, shrouded in another’s cloak. But now the city held its breath, the anticipation of his imminent arrival calling out to him. With any luck, her magic would serve as the _nudge_ that would convince him to stop disguising himself as her Avenger..

The storyteller stepped backward as the door completed opening, turning away, walking down the street. She was harmless. She was nobody. She didn’t even need a disguise. With luck, he wouldn’t remember he saw her as he breathed in the wind whispering its dream of him.

She went back to her bar, where she opened it for ordinary business for a few hours: serving drinks and listening to the stories of others. She heard about the explosions in the Kabukicho, and the theories of a territory squabble among the Phantom Demon Alliance. Eventually, just as she planned, she sold several carefully chosen bottles of alcohol to the Archer and Assassin when they came in, and gave Assassin a special smile as she told him, “Keep things interesting, sir.”

Once again, her soft words fell like a shadow: shading, tinting, forcing another to adjust without even realizing they’d been influenced. He only laughed and left the bar with the cold-eyed Archer, off to enjoy a drinking party with his enemies just like the outlaw he was.

As soon as they were gone, the storyteller stepped into the back room and sagged against the door. She hadn’t realized how much coming face to face with the Archer would shake her. But even for a _good half_ , he had a keen, calculating gaze that seemed to see through every shadow. Only his bias protected her from being noticed. They had the same goals at the moment, so he ought to see only a tool he could use in her careful farewell.

She hoped so, at least. Her spine crawled as she remembered the way he’d scanned the bar, cataloguing each gang member present. If he identified her, he would certainly kill her, _good side_ or not. Imagining his strange weapon pointed at her turned her legs to jelly, and she slid down the door, covering her head. The fear crawled up her throat, strangling her, stealing her breath. She wanted to run and hide, to pull her Territory around her and conjure up an irresistible Alf Layla wa-Layla.

But Andersen and Will were both prisoners in the Tower. If it had only been Will, perhaps she could have hidden now and let the young man handle it. She’d set so many events in motion already. But with both the writers captive of the Archer of the Tower, it wasn’t enough. She knew stories, and she knew how this one would go if she gave into her fear. 

She remembered how a thousand maidens had died to her husband before she’d forced herself to be his next wife. Slowly, her legs weak, she stood up. She ran her hands over her face, hiding away the signs of her terror, as she’d done every evening when he called her to his chamber. From somewhere, she found the small smile men found so captivating in their weak moments and so easy to ignore in their strength. 

Then, straightening her shoulders, she returned to her work at the bar until she began to hear the rumors that _Sherlock Holmes_ had come to Shinjuku, _Sherlock Holmes_ was the Phantom Demon Alliance’s newest power. In rumor, he’d come to seize poor Erik’s territory, come to fight the Tower’s Archer for dominance, or even to save the dark city (though nobody really believed the last, including the storyteller).

But she was satisfied, all the same. Soon they’d be moving onto their next enemy, which meant once again the bar had to close. After she’d poured the last round of drinks, highly-watered, and shooed out her patrons, she locked up. Then, taking up the vial her Avenger had provided, she set out to once again find the wolf.

He’d run far from the fire, but his wild fear called to her like the crunch of glass underfoot. Tracking him was easy. As she approached the hollowed out warehouse he’d made his den, she once again whispered to the world of forests and mountain winds. The Hessian was wary, but it was a tale the Wolf King desperately wanted to hear, and the fond Rider couldn’t resist.

As quietly as the wind, she walked in the shadow of another wolf, one she summoned, bringing prey to the king. The medicine that laced the meat was benign, truly. He would sleep well, and awake stronger—but groggy. A little bit slow. A little bit averse to blood. A little bit more likely to let residents escape, and a little bit easier for the young man to defeat.

The storyteller stroked the wolf’s ears as he dozed off. She felt the Hessian’s invisible gaze on her, but for once she wasn’t completely terrified. The Rider cared too much for his mount to hurt her now. “You’ll be remembered, great king. And what is remembered lives again.” With a sigh, she added, “Or as close as we can get.” She looked up at where the Hessian’s face should have been. “I promise.”

He nodded, and she walked away, wrapping the shadow of Alf Layla wa-Layla around her again until once more the Wolf King slumbered in a ruined warehouse.

On her way back to her bar, several Hornets called out to her. “Are you coming to the boss’s shindig tonight? You know how he loves your drinks!” She only waved at them and hurried on, back to her refuge.

So, Assassin was holding a party tonight. He did that sometimes; it was nothing special. She’d even attended as staff several times. If she wanted, she could attend tonight—but what would be the point of that?

Then she thought of the Archer of Shinjuku, the rival of Sherlock Holmes, both of them cooped up with the young man and his pretty guardians. There was no need for any of them to attend the party. Holmes knew where Assassin’s secret hideout was. They could attack him there whenever they wished.

Ah, but perhaps they thought he’d flee. Perhaps they wanted to entrap him?

Perhaps the old man just wanted to see pretty girls dressed up.

The storyteller’s mouth twisted. Given a choice of possibilities, such men would _always_ choose to play with finely dressed puppets from behind the scenes.

She almost called for her Avenger to end this story early. But Baal’s location was yet unconfirmed, and she was still frightened of being discovered and identified. Instead she once again ventured out. It would be no good for her to go to Assassin’s party, not when there would be so many watching eyes. But she could visit him before the party, and lend what little aid she could in advance of the inevitable confrontation. With Andersen’s incisive pen refining the flaws from Will’s monsters, the young man and his guardians would need all the help they could get.

She went to the Barrel Tower and greeted some of the guards outside that she knew from her bar. After a time, her EMIYA Alter looked out from the second floor and noticed her. A few moments later, he came downstairs, a packet in one hand.

“Oi!” he called to one of his men. “This needs delivering over to that psycho bastard’s place. Get on it!”

The soldier, who’d been complaining about just how callous EMIYA Alter was, pulled himself away from his chat with the storyteller to take the packet. As he did, EMIYA said, “And get that woman out of here.”

“Best move along, ma’am,” said the soldier stiffly, and then added, “I’ll escort you.”

“Of course,” murmured the storyteller, pulling her shawl up around her head as she turned away from her Archer. “Perhaps after your errand I can reward you with a drink.”

It was a stratagem she’d used before in conjunction with EMIYA Alter, often enough that when she left the soldier at a bar along the way and delivered the packet herself, none of Assassin’s guards blinked at all. As far as they knew, she was an official messenger between the camps, and she was taken straightaway to Assassin’s private chamber.

He was already choosing what to wear for the evening ahead, both skin and clothing. As she watched, he flickered through four different faces, and then settled on the skin of one of the young man’s guardians. “What do you think, babe?”

“Mmm, I like your outlaw’s face the best, sir.” She put the packet of patrol schedules on the table. 

The pretty face grimaced. “But I don’t feel like me when I’m me. Besides, I’ll be letting everyone down. They want to see something special.”

“I’m certain they will, sir.” She lowered her scarf, humming under her breath.

Advancing on her, Assassin pulled her into his arms. “Come on. Inspire me. Make me feel good.”

And this, too, she could do.

Later, as he stretched out beside her, returned to his natural form once again for the nonce, she whispered a story in his ear: abbreviated but powerful, a story about a hero, a dream and the witch who loved him. Her magic wouldn’t touch him, because he would notice, and because he deserved to fight his own battles. But it wove through his command over the creations Will and Andersen had made, twisting them so that inside, they bled.

Assassin frowned at the tale, shaking it out of his head. “You know the saddest stories, babe.” He melted back into the form of the young man’s guardian. “But damn, you’re great otherwise. I almost don’t want to go play with the marks.”

“Go, go,” she said. “I am nobody special. Tomorrow, outside of your bed, you won’t even recognize me.”

He laughed. “That’s my line. Hey, want to come with me tonight? I can find you a dress.”

Smiling, the storyteller shook her head. “I do not belong in such a glittering crowd.”

With a shrug, he returned to dressing himself. When she adjusted the bow in his hair, she met the golden gaze and could see he was already thinking of other things: money to be stolen and blood to be shed. And as he walked out the door, she whispered, “You too will be remembered,” and hoped, when his memory took on form once more, he would not remember her.

She left the tall building. When the young man’s guardians brawled, things burned, and she was frightened of fire. She went back to her bar, which was safe, and served drinks to the bored and the broken-hearted, going over what she’d done and what she expected yet to happen. When the explosion came from Assassin’s building, she picked up the bottles that had vibrated off the high shelf and returned them, before pouring out a beer on the house for everybody present.

The young man still had the wolf left to face, but she’d handled that. They’d win, one way or another. Holmes and his rival and the Altered guardians between them could easily handle the wolf, if they put their minds to it. It was a certainty.

As the night and the night-that-should-have-been-day passed, more and more of the remaining residents of Shinjuku drifted through her bar, driven by a growing fright to the only place of community they knew. She served them drinks, and smiled, and remembered each of their faces. They were only humans, if even that, and many of them quite monstrous. But despite the ruling of history, they were real to themselves. Their personal stories were true ones. She was not the young man and she couldn’t save them all. But she could remember. In Alf Layla wa-Layla, they would live as long as she did: bandits and ruffians and merchants for every future story.

Rumor told her when the Hessian dismounted, and the wolf raced, three-legged and howling into the city. Rumor told her of the Archer of the Tower’s plan to harness a shooting star for some nefarious reason. Rumor told her only her Archer was left to guard the other Archer’s Barrel Tower—and she tried to relax then. It was almost over. EMIYA Alter knew how to disappear at the right time. Will and Andersen’s collaborations would threaten the young man, but if they could defeat the Wolf King, they could defeat Macbeth and King Lear and the others.

Soon, it would be over. Soon she could let go of this dying world and take her stories back to Chaldea, reunite with the writers who had befriended her, hide once again in safety.

And yet she was restless. She’d planned for everything, but something was still wrong.

It was _the other one_. That Sherlock Holmes. He was an idiot. Hadn’t he worked out what would happen to him if he went into that Barrel Tower with his rival? His nemesis? Didn’t the man have any fear at all?

Perhaps he thought he too would be _remembered_ , but the storyteller wasn’t all sure that would work out. The wolf and the Hessian would be remembered as a single entity, as would the outlaw and the doppelganger phantom he’d absorbed. No, what the Archer of Shinjuku planned couldn’t be allowed. It was far too dangerous, and besides, Holmes was— 

The _idiocy_ of the detective had to be stopped!

She left her bar without closing it or locking it, and without a scarf. She ran through the streets of Shinjuku, her feet moving lightly and her heart pounding like thunder, until the Barrel Tower loomed above her. The entrance was unguarded, and only wisps of shattered tales showed her where the young man’s team had climbed before her. She climbed with wings on her feet, lifting herself into the secret spaces above the hallways and wriggling to where she could see, without being seen, the confrontation below.

Two Archers of Shinjuku, and Sherlock Holmes between them—

Frantically, she wove a whisper into the atmosphere of the building, an urge to move, to shift, to change, to _step away,_ to _look around…_ but the idiot just looked between the two Archers like he was having the time of his life. And then one of the Archers turned into Baal—the Tower one, just like they’d suspected all along—and everything was going exactly as she planned except NOT—

“ _Move, damn you!”_ she shouted, but her voice was all but lost in the babble that rose at Baal’s appearance. And then, before she could be just as stupid as Holmes, the Archer of Shinjuku pierced him and drank him down with a satisfied smile.

“No,” she gasped, and she was not alone. But despite the chorus, the Archer of Shinjuku looked up at her hiding spot, his pale eyes narrowing.

It was at that point her Archer made his move. EMIYA Alter jumped down from his own perch, his guns blazing, while the storyteller cowered back in the shadows and prayed that the Archer of Shinjuku had seen nothing but darkness, heard nothing but an echo of somebody else’s voice.

It was a vain prayer. When Baal was gone and her Archer had gone off with one of the guardians to shoot down a falling star, once again the Archer of Shinjuku looked up at the storyteller’s hiding place. His mouth opened and she quaked. Now that he’d absorbed Sherlock Holmes, even her little tricks and stories would be as nothing—

“Hahahaha!” cried her Avenger, as he too dropped from a height, carrying two figures with him under his arms. “Yes, jump at shadows, villain! The stories you stole have turned against you, and the creators come for their vengeance!”

“Oh no, don’t describe it like that,” said Andersen, his arms crossed even as his legs kicked futilely. “Not if you want us to do that ourselves.”

“But an excellent piece of dialog, given the situation,” said Will cheerfully, scribbling something on his scroll.

Despite her impending doom, the storyteller’s heart lifted to see her friends in such good spirits. She watched, chewing on her fingers as her Avenger and the other Avenger joined the young man’s team in engaging the Archer of Shinjuku, and then as her friends called forth a hundred phantoms that the smug Archer had previously scorned. Detectives all, and none of them what Sherlock Holmes had been. But despite everything, they were enough.

And then it was over, and the grand culprit had been named, caught, and defeated. He smiled as he slowly began to fade, as if, like the idiot Holmes, he’d enjoyed a grand game of life and death.

The young man, always so kind, so blind, welcomed the Archer of Shinjuku, if he should happen to remember his way to Chaldea, and the storyteller prayed, _prayed_ he would not.

Her Avenger and her Archer granted her mercy, though. Though they admitted they’d been summoned, they let the others believe what they wanted about who had summoned them—and Will and Andersen didn’t exactly deny doing it either. As some sparkles of the Archer of Shinjuku yet lingered, she was intensely grateful. All she wanted to do now was return home, to her safe little room, and the safe little study where Will and Andersen and little Nursery Rhyme understood about stories, and never tried to talk her out of her fear. 

When the rayshift finally came, she sagged in relief, before following it back. She crept in behind the others, erasing herself from the records as she moved past them. Just beyond the main control room, she stopped as she heard a familiar laugh.

“Oh yes, I’m practically an invalid now,” said Holmes to da Vinci. “I hope you’ll consent to let me lounge around here while I finish my investigation.”

“How did you get here?” da Vinci demanded tartly.

Holmes’ gaze moved past the inventor to where the storyteller paused. Quickly, she hurried on as he said, “I have my tricks. And I harvested quite a few secrets from Moriarty while I was within him. Would you like to hear?”

“…Go on,” said da Vinci stiffly, and then the storyteller was out of earshot. 

She’d revealed herself to the Archer of Shinjuku for no purpose. Sherlock Holmes had never been in danger at all. She’d been the idiot, not him.

Seeking solace, she went to the writers’ study, where Will and Andersen had already resettled themselves.

“Well, my dear, did you enjoy the solitude while we were gone?” asked Will jovially.

With a shudder, the storyteller said, “I thought I’d die.”

“Will, you’re an idiot,” said Andersen. He met the storyteller’s eyes and she could see her secret locked away there, never to be told.

By him, anyhow. But the _other one_ …

The writer’s study wasn’t solace enough. She went to her little bedroom and paced, trying to decide what to do. If ever the Archer of Shinjuku was summoned, if he remembered her, he would hurt her, no matter what the young man thought. But…

But…

A knock came at her door, and she jumped, her heart pounding. Had he come already? Could she lie to him?

A voice came through the door. “I thought you might want to know, Caster…” It was Holmes. She flung open the door and pulled him into the room before anybody else could overhear him, as he was still speaking. “When I parted from my dear nemesis, I took certain memories with me.” He caught his balance and his gloved hand curled around hers. “There are some things he does not deserve to know.”

She lowered her eyes, tugging her hand away. "You're very kind. But I am nobody important."

He released her hand, but his gaze held her. Very gently, he said, "That is not true. You are Scheherazade, and I have wanted to meet you for a very long time."

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists because of a little bit of magic written on Discord by PallanMinerva. It hit me like a bolt of lightning, and here we are.
> 
> I'm also very grateful to TungstenCat, who is kind enough to listen when I just can't shut up, and then do some editing after that.


End file.
